


I Was Fixed on Your Hand of Gold

by Comicbooklovergreen



Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/F, Fluff and bits of angst, Guess the lick word, Gwendolyn is an expert in communication, Gwendolyn is happy to oblige, Love Languages, Mentions of Cancer, Mildred is insecure and needs a hug, PTSD, Very bitty bits of angst though, soft lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comicbooklovergreen/pseuds/Comicbooklovergreen
Summary: Gwendolyn Briggs is well-versed in the art of communication, spoken and unspoken.Mildred Ratched cannot always voice the things she wants to say, or trust the things she hears.Gwendolyn is a problem solver and doesn’t mind trying something new.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Comments: 33
Kudos: 112





	I Was Fixed on Your Hand of Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WildnessBecomesYou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/gifts).



> Happy 2021, kids, and good riddance to bad rubbish. Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to support my first solo fic for this fandom, hope you like this one as well. Dedicated to WildnessBecomesYou, because of all the reasons, not least of which being the title and summary for this one. You told me to write the thing, I wrote the thing, thank you for listening about the thing.
> 
> Love you all, may 2021 be the start of recovery for everyone, why not start out that recovery by leaving some comments for your local fic writer?
> 
> PS. The film referenced is The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, which is such a dumbass name for a film, it’s amazing. To my enabler when it comes to other ‘50’s gays, and basically everything else. If you ever actually see this, you have my thanks, my friendship, and all my horrific headcanons. Cheers.

It started while Gwendolyn read the paper.

She would read with Mildred sat next to her at the kitchen table, or curled up with her on the sofa. Gwendolyn only needed one hand for this most of the time. Her free hand then would find it’s way to Mildred’s knee or her upper thigh, or the back of her hand. From there, Gwendolyn’s index finger would draw patterns against Mildred’s skin.

Mildred didn’t understand at first. It was a small gesture, but so much more than she was used to. Sometimes the tip of Gwendolyn’s finger was so light that it tickled a little. Mildred had a very firm policy on tickling and the lack of it. She hadn’t known she was ticklish anywhere before Gwendolyn, no one had ever touched her gently enough for her to find out.

Gwendolyn delighted in the discovery, Mildred less so, and she established that rule about tickling as soon as she realized.

That rule wasn’t her firmest, as it turned out. Every so often Gwendolyn would push the boundaries of it, enough for Mildred to bite back a giggle and try to scowl at her, but not so much that Gwendolyn couldn’t claim it was accidental.

Gwendolyn had a habit of breaking every rule Mildred set for herself, had it from the start. She broke all the rules, yet somehow never came close to violating the ones that mattered. Mildred didn’t understand how Gwendolyn could do that, but she did, every day.

Mildred also did not understand the finger Gwendolyn danced across her skin in idle moments.

“I just like touching you,” Gwendolyn said when asked. “Is that alright?” she added, and her face softened the way it always did on that question.

Yes. Yes, it was more than that, and Mildred demonstrated that with a kiss that built to more than a kiss, and those light, casual touches they’d discussed were replaced with others, more focused, more intent, and Mildred happily forgot that line of questioning.

* * *

The touches didn’t stop. Mildred kept feeling them in the quiet moments, and every so often, her mind would catch on them, hitch over something. It wasn’t a bad feeling, it wasn’t urgent or nagging, there was just something in that finger dragging across her skin, in the random patterns.

Mildred figured it out one night while on the sofa with Gwendolyn. They’d both had long days, shared a light but filling dinner, wine that had them a little sleepy. Mildred was sprawled out half on top of Gwendolyn while Gwendolyn laid atop the couch cushions, a pillow behind her head and both arms around Mildred. Mildred had worried about putting too much weight on Gwendolyn, like she always did.

“I’m too heavy.”

“You’re ridiculous. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect, but ridiculous? Your compliments could use some work.”

“My compliments are wonderful and heartfelt, but you’d hardly know since you barely listen to them.”

“That’s not true.”

“You practically run from the room every time I try to say something nice about you. And when I do manage to catch you, you can’t even look at me while I do it.”

“That’s not true either.”

It absolutely was, but at least Gwendolyn sounded mostly amused, not upset.

“Then come here, lovely.”

“I’m hardly what anyone would call lovely,” Mildred mumbled, ducking her eyes away as she shifted towards Gwendolyn.

“Well, it’s a good thing my name is Gwendolyn, not Anyone.”

Gwendolyn’s absurd compliments became even more so after a couple glasses of wine.

Now the wine and the food and the safety of each other had them sleepy, and Mildred was on the verge of a light doze, but Gwendolyn’s finger was drawing those shapes on her upper arm, and something in them was keeping her awake, and suddenly, without focusing on it much at all, Mildred understood why.

“I…I am not?” Mildred said, accidentally a question.

Gwendolyn smiled down at her, not quite a smirk. “You’re not? What exactly aren’t you, lovely?”

It was definitely a smirk now, and Mildred was right. Words. Letters, and then words. Gwendolyn had been drawing words with her finger against Mildred’s skin, was still doing it as they spoke. Mildred felt one of the L’s forming, and it made her shiver.

_Lovely._

Gwendolyn was still calling her lovely. Gwendolyn had, Mildred suspected, been calling her things, saying things to her, nearly every time the pad of that finger touched Mildred’s skin in the quiet moments.

“Why?” Mildred asked.

Gwendolyn’s eyes sparkled. “Because I like touching you. Because you are impossible, and I need to be able to tell you these things sometimes, without you running away. You, my dear, have forced my hand.”

Gwendolyn finished with the Y, then squeezed Mildred’s shoulders affectionately.

A pun? Mildred was fairly sure that was a pun. Honestly, Gwendolyn was beyond ridiculous sometimes. “That is completely and utterly silly,” Mildred grumbled, hiding her face against Gwendolyn’s shirt.

“And?” Gwendolyn asked. Her finger started to trace something else, then halted. “Darling.”

It was as loving and gentle as always, but tinged with enough seriousness that Mildred looked up immediately.

“Would you like me to stop?”

God, this woman. When she said things like that. When she asked after Mildred like that, as though Mildred’s comfort, her wants, her needs were the only things in the world that mattered, that ever would.

When Gwendolyn did things like that, it made Mildred want to cry. But if she did that, Gwendolyn would worry, and Mildred never wanted Gwendolyn to worry, never again, about anything.

They weren’t there yet. Mildred wasn’t there yet. They still had to get to Mexico, had to cure Gwendolyn of that word Mildred couldn’t stand to think or say or see, but did two out of the three countless times each day because she had to, in order to get Gwendolyn better.

They weren’t there yet, but they would be. In the meantime, Mildred didn’t want to cry and she didn’t want Gwendolyn to worry, and no, she realized, hardly needing to think on it at all. No, she didn’t want Gwendolyn to stop.

She never, ever wanted Gwendolyn to stop touching her, even in such a silly, ridiculous way.

So Mildred told Gwendolyn that—most of that—and Gwendolyn grinned and kissed her hair and resumed the careful drag of her finger against Mildred’s forearm.

* * *

It became something of a game then, Mildred trying to decipher those messages of love drawn against her skin. It was a challenge of the best kind. Gwendolyn kept things varied enough that Mildred had to devote some level of concentration if she wanted to decode the words, but Gwendolyn definitely had her favorites, ones she returned to.

_Home._

_Safe._

_Mine._

_Yours._

_Love._

These were easier to figure out, fewer letters, but Gwendolyn would never allow Mildred to get bored, never allow her to believe that Gwendolyn didn’t think her capable of more. So there were the longer words, pet names, mostly.

_Sweetness._

_Darling._

_Honey._

And lovely, of course. Mildred was rather impressed with herself for that one, that longer word being the one she first deciphered.

It became a code between them, speech without speech. Mildred missed half of the plot of a matinee they attended one Saturday because Gwendolyn was drawing those words in the dark, against her leg,

It was clear she would’ve liked to be doing more than that, if so many people hadn’t had the same idea they had, if the theater was less crowded. Mildred figured this out fifteen minutes in, the first time Gwendolyn spelled out the word ‘fuck’ against the fabric of her dress, closer to her inner thigh than outer.

There were other words, things that could never be said in polite company. One of them, Mildred had never heard Gwendolyn speak aloud at all, but when she whipped her head around, fixed Gwendolyn with an incredulous stare, Gwendolyn only smiled at her in the dark, had the gall to ask if she was alright, then tell her to watch the movie.

Mildred got her revenge on the drive home, at least.

“Mildred, I am driving.”

“So you are. Who’s stopping you? Carry on. And while you’re at it, tell me what I missed of the movie.”

 _“_ Mildred.”

“Gwendolyn. We paid to get into that picture, and I for one wanted to see it.”

“No one stopped you. The view was very clear, I thought, nice big screen.”

“The view’s very clear from here, too. No rain or fog or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Gwendolyn said, her jaw clenched.

“So why did you just miss our turn?”

“Goddamn it, Mildred.”

“Yes, Gwendolyn?”

“You know perfectly well why.”

“And you know why I missed the film. Now, tell me what happened.”

Gwendolyn breathed, more noticeably than usual. Her hands were too tight on the wheel. “When did you lose track?”

“You know exactly when.” Mildred paused, looked at Gwendolyn’s hands on the wheel. “Ten and two.”

“What?”

“Hands. Ten and two.”

“They are.”

“They aren’t. You’re at nine and three. Nine and four,” Mildred corrected as Gwendolyn sucked in a breath, her fingers twitching open and shifting on the steering wheel.

“You,” Gwendolyn said through gritted teeth as she adjusted her grip, “are hardly one to talk about hands being where they shouldn’t while driving.”

“You started it. Now, tell me about the movie.”

“Cary Grant was being an oaf to make Shirley Temple stop wanting him, but it only made her want him more. There was asinine, pedantic word—” Gwendolyn was cut off by her own sharp, involuntary inhale. _“_ Play.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Wordplay,” Gwendolyn said, biting the word out before biting her lip. “There was wordplay.”

“Oh.” Mildred paused in her ministrations. “Did everyone live happily ever after?”

Despite the obvious…strain, she was under, Gwendolyn smiled. “Yes. Not how they expected to, not how the audience expected them to, but yes.”

Mildred’s smile in return was bright, contented. “Good. That’s the best kind of happily ever after.”

* * *

Mildred sucked in a shuddering breath. Her hands fisted in the sheets. “Fuck, Gwendolyn, I can’t.”

Gwendolyn hummed against her skin, but otherwise ignored the protest. She kept working her tongue over Mildred.

“Gwen, I—Gwen!”

Gwendolyn’s tongue hit somewhere particularly sensitive that had Mildred jerking up and into her.

Gwendolyn held her down though, shushed her. “Nonsense,” she said, with nothing but honey in her voice. “Of course you can. Such a smart,” she licked Mildred, “determined,” she licked again, “brilliant girl? You can. Of course you can. My beautiful, clever, darling.”

Mildred let out a whine she would’ve been beyond ashamed of mere weeks ago. “I can’t, Gwen.”

Gwendolyn shushed her again, took one of Mildred’s hands into one of hers. “Stop thinking so much,” she murmured, nearly crooned. “You’re trying too hard, stop forcing it. You don’t have to force it; we have all night.”

This, all night, the thought of it had Mildred nearly sobbing. Her fingers tightened desperately, almost convulsively, in Gwendolyn’s.

“Just breathe,” Gwendolyn said, her voice an impossible combination of soothing and arousing. “Breathe. Relax. You can. Don’t think so much,”

Mildred tried to listen, because if Gwendolyn kept talking to her, her tongue would lose it’s place, it’s rhythm, and then Mildred would lose it, and that simply wouldn’t do. So she breathed, in and out, tried to shut her brain off. She willed her body to relax, starting with her shoulders and working down from there. Gwendolyn hummed approval, but kept her tongue moving, kept it firm.

Mildred closed her eyes, focused on Gwendolyn’s weight against her. For several minutes, that was all she could manage.

She shuddered again. Her voice barely worked, but she gasped Gwendolyn’s name out.

“You got it, baby?” Gwendolyn asked, impossibly low.

Mildred wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of much of anything right now, but she nodded, bobbed her head jerkily against the pillows Gwendolyn had so carefully laid out for her.

“There you go, there it is, there’s my beautiful, brilliant, girl. Go on then, don’t be shy.”

Mildred sucked in another breath. Her throat worked itself uselessly for a few endless seconds before she could form anything approaching a human sound. “Island?” she said finally, closer to a plea than not.

It hung between them. Gwendolyn’s mouth remained pressed against her, her hand clasping Mildred’s. Then that mouth disappeared and Mildred thought the sudden lack of wet warmth might kill her.

“Why?” Gwendolyn asked huskily, “would I write the word ‘island’ on your bare back, with my tongue?”

Mildred groaned. “How the hell would I know? You’re saying that’s not it?”

“No that’s not it.”

Mildred whined, pressed her face down into the pillow. “Damn it, Gwendolyn…”

Gwendolyn husked out a laugh. Her weight shifted as she dropped kisses all along Mildred’s spine. She tugged lightly at Mildred’s hip. “Turn over, baby.”

Mildred did and Gwendolyn moved with her, until they were on their sides facing each other. Gwendolyn laughed again.

“What?” Mildred asked, shoving lightly at her shoulder and trying not to become too self-conscious. Gwendolyn would never laugh at her, not really, Gwendolyn wasn’t cruel like that.

This was proven when Gwendolyn instantly scooted forward, ghosting more kisses over Mildred’s face. “Nothing, sweetness, nothing. You’ve got a little,” Gwendolyn gestured at her own face. “That’s all.”

Mildred frowned. What could she possibly have on her face? Gwendolyn was sans lipstick right now, and the only other thing they ever did in here that could’ve resulted in something on her face, they hadn’t done.

Which was a damn shame, actually.

Mildred sat up enough to see her reflection in the floor length mirror on the other side of the room. One side of her face was streaked red where she’d pushed it too hard for too long into the pillow. She groaned, flopping back into the mattress.

“I look ridiculous,” she said, tried turning away from Gwendolyn on the bed.

Gwendolyn held her, kept on kissing the red marks on her face. “You look beautiful,” she said, resting their foreheads together. “Stunning.”

Mildred scoffed. “What a pair we make. I can’t spell, and you need your eyes checked.”

“My vision,” Gwendolyn kissed Mildred on the lips, cupped her reddened cheek, “is perfect. You,” Gwendolyn kissed her again, “are a vision. Regardless of whether or not you can spell.”

Mildred swiped half-heartedly at Gwendolyn. “It’s harder with your tongue.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes sparkled in the way that meant she was about to say something filthy, but apparently, she thought better of it, perhaps deciding that Mildred was red enough already. “Absolutely,” she said,” but practice makes perfect.”

Mildred groaned again. It turned into more of a breathy laugh when Gwendolyn began laying kisses against her neck. “Practice is going to kill me,” she declared, tugged until Gwendolyn was on top of her. Properly this time, with their legs tangled together and their breasts touching.

Gwendolyn hummed her disagreement, used her fingers to tilt Mildred’s chin up and to the side a bit so she had better access to the column of Mildred’s throat. “So much stronger than that,” Gwendolyn said, and Mildred felt the words as much as she heard them. “So much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Mildred made a noise that could have been an argument. Honestly, she wasn’t sure. “It’s hard,” she whined.

“Mmm. Practice makes perfect. Would you like to practice on me?”

It took a moment for Mildred to understand what Gwendolyn was suggesting. “You, you mean I make the words?”

Gwendolyn smirked.

“I’m not a very good speller.”

“You’re much, much better than think.”

The words, the thoughts racing through Mildred’s head, they made her flush hotter. “I think I like it better when you do the spelling. For now,” she said, adding the last hastily.

Gwendolyn’s laugh was full, musical. “Well then. I love spelling, and I’m very happy to oblige.”

Mildred let out a breath she immediately sucked back in when Gwendolyn hit a particularly sensitive place on her throat. “I love you,” she said, because Gwendolyn kept telling her that she didn’t have to say thank you for certain things.

“Oh, I love you,” Gwendolyn said, used her teeth on that spot. “I love you, sweet girl.”

Mildred squirmed, not unpleasantly, put a bracing hand at the back of Gwendolyn’s neck. “What about the spelling though? Was I close?”

Gwendolyn’s mouth stilled against her neck. “You had a good start.”

Mildred was well-versed in Gwendolyn by now. She didn’t know as much as she’d like, because she didn’t know everything, but she was learning fast. She’d learned, even before they started exploring this glorious, heady, terrifying part of their relationship, that Gwendolyn was not above a little politician-speak. “How badly did I do?”

“Not badly, not at all. Sweetheart, you—”

Mildred appreciated Gwendolyn’s near-constant insistence that she be kinder to herself, that she learn that skill little by little. It was a foreign feeling, having someone around who cared about her, who wouldn’t stand for any cruelty towards her, not even (or especially) cruelty inflicted by Mildred herself. It was strange and slightly uncomfortable in it’s newness, but Mildred really did treasure it, truly.

Just not right now.

“How many letters?” she asked, cutting Gwendolyn off before she could use her sweet, beautiful, encouraging words to weasel out of answering the question. “How many did I get right?”

“You had a good start, darling.”

“Gwendolyn. Three? Four?”

Gwendolyn winced. “One.”

“One?” Mildred repeated, outraged. “How many letters were there?”

Gwendolyn frowned a little, seemed to count in her head. “Nine.”

“Nine?” Mildred hated sounding like a parrot, hated feeling like one even more, but really, nine? That was double the number of most of their words. Not that she would ever admit the possibility that the challenge was too great. “What was it?”

Gwendolyn smiled. “Ineffable,” she said, touching Mildred’s lower lip with her thumb.

Mildred blinked. How on Earth was she meant to have guessed that? What kind of word was that?

Gwendolyn leaned over and kissed the place her finger left. “It means,” she said, rolling Mildred onto her back. “too big to be described, or too much to be described.”

Mildred frowned as Gwendolyn climbed over her, one hand braced at either side of Mildred’s head on the pillows. She was reminded suddenly of the motel hallway, of Gwendolyn in her space, much too close yet not close enough as she trapped Mildred against the door. The angle was different now but, as they had then, Mildred’s eyes went to Gwendolyn’s lips.

Mildred had wanted to kiss her then, but couldn’t, for so many reasons. She could now so she did, bringing a hand to the back of Gwendolyn’s neck and running the other one feather-light along Gwendolyn’s right arm, slightly tensed with the effort of holding herself up.

“Why?” Mildred asked, the sting of her lesser vocabulary somewhat alleviated by the goosebumps her fingers left on Gwendolyn’s forearm, “would you spell that word on my bare back, with your tongue? What possessed you?”

Gwendolyn’s eyes shone with an intensity Mildred still wasn’t used to. “You possessed me,” she said. She bent her head down, kissed Mildred again. “You possess me,” she added, making sure Mildred heard the present tense. “You and your ineffable beauty, your ineffable charm, your ineffably brilliant mind.”

Gwendolyn, damn her, paired each of these with a thrust of her hips, pressure against Mildred’s, there and then not, not enough to do anything besides drive Mildred crazy. “I’m not sure you’re using your own word correctly,” Mildred said, her voice more than a little ragged.

“I am,” Gwendolyn promised. “No doubt about that.”

Gwendolyn’s voice was honey, liquid sex, and Mildred wanted nothing more than to get lost in it, to lose herself in Gwendolyn. She wanted to lose herself entirely, not return until Gwendolyn found her again, put her back together. That was all she wanted.

Almost.

“How do you spell it?” she asked. How had she only gotten one letter right? She wished she didn’t care so much, but Gwendolyn was calling her this thing, this apparently good thing, so it was important. Everything Gwendolyn said and thought was important.

Also, Mildred really didn’t like it when others knew things she didn’t.

Gwendolyn grinned, slid her way down Mildred’s body until her head was between Mildred’s legs. She put a hand on each of Mildred’s thighs, opening them wider.

“I think you just need another go at it. Why don’t we try spelling it out somewhere else?”

* * *

Mildred went away sometimes. To dark places in her head, her past, where Gwendolyn couldn’t follow.

Sometimes she knew why this happened. Too much rain, an especially long day at the hospital, a sound or a smell that made her a child again.

Sometimes she knew why and sometimes she didn’t. Tonight was definitely the latter.

She laid atop the duvet in Gwendolyn’s room (their room, their room, their room Gwendolyn kept saying why couldn’t she get that right) staring at the ceiling. She was a little cold, but lacked the energy to lift up and crawl under the covers.

She hated this. She shouldn’t be like this anymore, couldn’t. Not when she had Gwendolyn with her to make everything better, not when she needed to make Gwendolyn better, cure her.

God, the tumor. There was a tumor inside Gwendolyn right now, working to take Gwendolyn away from the world, away from her. The tumor never stopped, never took breaks for food or rest. It never got tired the way Mildred was right now.

Mildred was just lying here stopped, like a child crying over a missed nap, and Gwendolyn was dying. Gwendolyn was dying and Mildred wasn’t doing a single thing about it. She was letting it happen, she—

“Mildred.”

Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn was here. Gwendolyn was right here, next to her. Gwendolyn kissed her hair, draped a careful arm over her body.

“You’re chilled,” Gwendolyn said, and she breathed against Mildred’s cheek, rubbed at her arm.

Mildred lifted her hand up to touch Gwendolyn’s arm across her body. It took far more effort than it should’ve.

“I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn said, close to Mildred’s ear.

Mildred turned her head enough that she could meet Gwendolyn’s eyes. She couldn’t form words, looked the question at Gwendolyn instead and hoped she’d understand.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling this way.”

She’d understood, then. Of course she did, she was Gwendolyn.

This way, she said. Did she understand anything about what “this way” actually was? Could she explain it to Mildred, the way she explained words like ‘ineffable?’

“I don’t want to talk,” Mildred said, then immediately hated herself for it. It wasn’t true, much to her surprise. She did want to, at least some part of her did. She just couldn’t.

Gwendolyn nodded though, kissed Mildred’s hair. “You did,” she said. “You talked to me about not wanting to talk, that’s important. Thank you.”

Mildred was more than a little baffled. She heard the hint of a smile in Gwendolyn’s voice, but not over her suffering. No, Gwendolyn would never smile over that. Gwendolyn sounded…what? Grateful? Proud? Why? What had Mildred done to earn any of that, and why was she too stupid to figure it out?

Gwendolyn shifted just enough to pull the covers over both of them. Her hand slid down Mildred’s body, under her pajama top.

She knew better now, but still there was that moment. That moment Mildred thought Gwendolyn was going to push for something she couldn’t give. Not that she didn’t want to, she always wanted to. If she could make Gwendolyn healthy with just her touch, her tongue…

Gwendolyn rubbed Mildred’s belly beneath the shirt. Just that. Her warm hand caressed the soft flesh there while her light, steady breaths ghosted against Mildred’s cheek.

Mildred closed her eyes. The nausea was manageable but persistent, and caused by nothing more than her own foolishness. She knew that. Knew too that Gwendolyn would make her eat something, sooner than she’d like, to make up for the dinner she’d barely touched. And Mildred would have to because Gwendolyn would give her that look, and because Gwendolyn forgot nothing. She was impossibly forgiving, but she didn’t forget, and the next time Mildred needed her to take an extra nap or a new vitamin, Gwendolyn would remember this.

God, this was so wrong. Mildred couldn’t be like this. She had to be so much more than this, for Gwendolyn.

What if she got like this, useless like this, after the chemo started? What if Gwendolyn got sick (sicker) and needed her and Mildred got like this?

Gwendolyn kissed her cheek, a butterfly touch on skin so close to being tear-stained.

No. That wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t get like this when Gwendolyn needed care because she couldn’t, and that was that. And Gwendolyn was here now and fine (she’d been dying from the moment Mildred met her) and she wouldn’t make Mildred eat until later. For now, it was just Gwendolyn’s hand, warm and soft, and it helped with the nausea. Those gentle circles she made against Mildred’s stomach helped.

It took her time to notice the change, realize they weren’t just circles anymore, nor random non-patterns.

_Calm._

_Safe._

_Here._

_Mine._

_Home._

Having something to concentrate on helped too, something besides the rolling waves of unpleasantness in her gut. She had to concentrate to make out the words, though thankfully Gwendolyn wasn’t using anything new tonight, nothing Mildred hadn’t felt before.

Would she ever truly feel those things? Feel them down in her bones, in whatever part of her soul might still be worth something? She wasn’t sure, but Gwendolyn seemed as determined to make that happen as Mildred was to make Gwendolyn’s cancer disappear.

Mildred didn’t open her eyes, couldn’t. She could feel Gwendolyn’s hand though, imagine how it looked under her shirt as Gwendolyn spelled out her words of devotion.

Her shirt.

Gwendolyn’s shirt.

Mildred didn’t wear pajama tops like this, Gwendolyn did. This was Gwendolyn’s. Had Mildred done that on purpose, thought of it?

Mildred hadn’t tried using Gwendolyn’s language herself. Maybe she should. Write out the words she couldn’t say, write them on Gwendolyn’s beautiful, perfect body. Mildred couldn’t think of it as anything but perfect, even knowing that it had turned against Gwendolyn. 

Maybe she needed to try Gwendolyn’s form of communication, but Mildred couldn’t bring herself to. What if she couldn’t do it right and Gwendolyn couldn’t understand? Mildred wasn’t sure she could stand that, not now. What if Gwendolyn had learned this from some other girl, or woman? What if she’d learned it from some past love who’d done it much better than Mildred ever could? What if Mildred doing it, failing at it, made Gwendolyn think of this other woman, who was probably so much easier than Mildred, simpler?

Had Gwendolyn ever been with anyone else who wasn’t easier than Mildred? Doubtful.

_Love._

Another word drawn against her body that she hadn’t known the meaning of before Gwendolyn, not truly. She’d loved Edmund, she always would, but that was…

No. Thinking of Edmund made the nausea worse. She didn’t want him here right now.

All those years, all she’d wanted was him, the one person who’d given her scraps of comfort. Now she was glad he was miles away, caged and unable to touch her, touch them.

Edmund had never touched her like this. Thank God.

 _Strong_.

The new word pulled her out of her thoughts, away from him. Because it was indeed new. She’d thought Gwendolyn would stick to the known terms, avoid challenging her.

Maybe she needed to be challenged. Maybe that was what she’d needed all along. Certainly it was what Gwendolyn did, all the time, from the moment they met, despite Mildred’s numerous protests.

How could a person be so insistent, push Mildred so far past what was comfortable that it hurt sometimes, yet not hurt her at all? How could Gwendolyn do what she did and be who she was, and still be the embodiment of all those things she traced into Mildred’s skin?

 _Strong_.

That one again. Gwendolyn tended to repeat them more when the words were new, let Mildred get a feel for them. But who was she referring to? Mildred? Or herself?

Mildred wanted to ask but couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe later. She’d get up later because she’d have to, but right now she didn’t. Right now, Edmund was miles and miles away and Gwendolyn wasn’t sick and wasn’t with anyone else, and didn’t seem like she wanted to be.

Mildred sank deeper into the mattress, concentrated on learning the G in ‘strong.’ G’s were difficult, not an especially common letter for the two of them.

Mildred felt Gwendolyn’s lips on her cheek, a barely there touch. Then there was the curve of the S reforming, and Mildred relaxed into it as her stomach started to settle again.

* * *

Gwendolyn got sick.

She had cancer, she’d been sick before Mildred ever laid eyes on her, and now the thing meant to keep her alive had her sicker than ever.

Mildred tried not to feel guilty about it. Gwendolyn hadn’t wanted to fight at all, was resigned to her fate when she first told Mildred. Was still halfway there even now, Mildred knew.

It wouldn’t be for long. She’d convince Gwendolyn about Mexico. The doctors there would do things that actually worked. This awfulness would become nothing but a distant memory that Mildred would spend every day burying under a mountain of happier ones. This was just temporary.

Mildred, knelt on the bathroom floor with Gwendolyn, holding her thick, beautiful hair back as she threw up everything in her body, that was just temporary.

Damn this tile. It was cold, hell on the knees, and Gwendolyn was forced into just this spot much too often now. Mildred made a mental note to pick up a rug the next time she went out, something warm and soft.

For now, Mildred did what she always did. She held Gwendolyn’s hair, rubbed her back, told her it was okay, that she would be okay.

Was she lying? No, she couldn’t be. She couldn’t be because she’d promised not to lie to Gwendolyn anymore, promised the both of them.

She did these things for patients all the time, offered these comforts. Why did it have to be so much harder here, getting the words out? Did Gwendolyn notice how hard it was? Mildred didn’t think so. She didn’t think Gwendolyn ever heard Mildred’s voice shake. Not over the sound of her own retching, the pounding in her head that she’d reluctantly told Mildred about.

The vomiting gave Gwendolyn terrible headaches sometimes. Mildred reminded herself to get some aspirin to go along with the water she’d need Gwendolyn to sip from.

The routine played itself out. When there was nothing left to give, Gwendolyn sat back against Mildred. Mildred wet a cloth, wiped Gwendolyn’s face, the sides of her mouth. Mildred didn’t take a full breath until some of the color came back to Gwendolyn’s cheeks.

Flush twice, then teeth brushed, which Gwendolyn insisted on even though Mildred would prefer a quick rinse of the mouth, anything more thorough held off until later. She wanted Gwendolyn warm and resting as soon as possible. Gwendolyn’s compromise was to sit on the toilet lid while she brushed.

Soon enough (though not for Mildred), Gwendolyn was sat in her favorite chair in the living room, a blanket over her legs. Mildred knelt on the floor in front of her, head in her lap.

Gwendolyn’s breathing was almost back to normal. Her fingers worked themselves through Mildred’s hair, rubbing at her scalp. Mildred had given her medicine for the headache, wanted to ask if it was working yet.

She couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. If she spoke now, her voice would definitely crack, and there would be no hiding it from Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn’s right hand was in Mildred’s hair, kneading her scalp in a way that would’ve turned Mildred into a puddle in other circumstances. As it was, there was no way Mildred could let go like that now. There was too much to think about, so much more to avoid thinking about. Too much to say that couldn’t be said.

Mildred’s whole body twitched without her permission. The hand in her hair stopped. Mildred looked up at Gwendolyn, found Gwendolyn looking down at her. Her eyes were tired, the lines in her face more prominent. She still didn’t have all of her color back. But she looked at Mildred with concern, as if Mildred were the one in need of that.

Stop worrying, Mildred wanted to say. Stop worrying about me. Worry means stress and stress isn’t good for you.

I’m not good for you.

Except that even in her worry, Gwendolyn smiled. Even now, after a terrible start to what promised to be an exceptionally long day, Gwendolyn smiled at her.

Sometimes Gwendolyn’s smile was enough to make Mildred believe that she was good for Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn, who’s free hand rested on the arm of the chair. Mildred took that hand, squeezed it, brought it to her mouth and kissed it.

“Alright?” Gwendolyn asked.

God, her voice was so rough, barely returned yet after all the vomiting.

No, Mildred wanted to say. No, I’m not alright. I can’t be alright when you sound like that, I can’t be alright until you are.

She couldn’t say that. She nodded, smiled.

Gwendolyn studied her; probably knew she was lying. She stayed quiet though, smiled back, a small twitch of her lips. Her free hand resumed it’s movements in Mildred’s hair.

Mildred breathed out, rested her cheek against Gwendolyn’s knee, the worn softness of the blanket. She could fall asleep like this, despite the ache in her knees from being on the floor. She could, but she couldn’t. If she fell asleep she wouldn’t hear Gwendolyn’s breathing, and that wasn’t acceptable.

She still had one of Gwendolyn’s hands in hers, her other arm wrapped loosely around Gwendolyn’s waist. Without Mildred really meaning it to, that first hand slid up, releasing Gwendolyn’s hand to rest on her arm instead. Gwendolyn’s arm was against the arm of the chair, and Mildred’s hand was on Gwendolyn’s arm.

Mildred couldn’t speak. Perhaps shouldn’t, even if she could have.

There were too many thoughts in her head. Loud, swirling, insistent, So loud they made it harder to hear Gwendolyn’s breathing, and that wouldn’t do.

Mildred’s finger began dragging itself along Gwendolyn’s arm. Tremulously, as though Mildred were the one who’d just spent twenty minutes retching her guts out. Her movements were slow, uncertain, like her first attempts at printing, and then cursive.

She’d been brutally criticized for both.

But she wasn’t strong like Gwendolyn. She couldn’t muster even one or two words, her throat was too tight, and the words needed to go somewhere, the thoughts. So Mildred traced them into Gwendolyn’s skin with a shaking hand, half afraid she would hurt Gwendolyn with the small touches.

_Strong._

_Safe._

_Mine._

_Love._

_Stay._

_Stay._

_Stay._

Was she talking about herself or Gwendolyn, with that last one that kept repeating? Mildred thought it was probably both.

For long minutes, she thought too that Gwendolyn wouldn’t notice. Mildred’s hand was too unsteady. She was probably doing it wrong. Probably best if Gwendolyn didn’t realize.

As soon as Mildred had that thought, the fingers in her hair stopped.

She looked up, wondering if Gwendolyn had fallen asleep. But no, she was wide awake and wide-eyed.

She felt it. Gwendolyn felt it, what she was doing.

 _Stay_.

Mildred hadn’t stopped tracing the word into Gwendolyn’s skin, and Gwendolyn mouthed it now, silently.

Mildred opened her mouth. Probably to apologize, though she wasn’t sure how yet, or entirely why. She opened her mouth but had no chance to speak. Gwendolyn, using more strength than Mildred had thought she possessed right then, pulled Mildred up, up, up. Before she knew what was happening, Mildred was in the chair with Gwendolyn, in her lap.

Gwendolyn pulled Mildred tight, their heartbeats pressed to each other. Gwendolyn’s arms were shaking and Mildred wanted to say something about that, but so were hers, and her throat was still blocked.

Gwendolyn kissed her. Her cheeks, her ears, her nose, her mouth. They were tired things, but there was still so much in them, so much life, and Mildred tried not to weep from it.

To her horror, she didn’t entirely succeed.

She kissed Gwendolyn back and tasted salt, and they touched each other’s faces, chased each other’s tears, too many to catch.

But Gwendolyn was smiling at her. A big, radiant smile that threatened to light up all of Mildred’s dark corners, chase the shadows away.

Mildred smiled back, couldn’t help it. She’d never been able to help any of it, not with Gwendolyn. She smiled and she cried, and Gwendolyn brought a hand up to cup her face. Mildred leaned into the touch, nuzzled the fingers, lost herself in their warmth.

She couldn’t stop the hot tears falling from her eyes, but Gwendolyn’s fingers were still warmer.

Always, even when she shivered from sickness, Gwendolyn was warmer.

Mildred got lost in that, so much so that she didn’t realize what Gwendolyn was doing, not right away. Gwendolyn’s fingers on the apple of Mildred’s cheeks weren’t swiping away tears anymore. They were writing.

_Yes._

_Here._

_Here._

_Yes._

_Here._

Mildred didn’t understand at first, not quite. Then she remembered.

_Stay._

Mildred had told Gwendolyn something (asked it of her?) and Gwendolyn was answering. But answering how?

Yes, stay here, I need you?

Yes, I’ll stay, I’m here, don’t worry?

Mildred didn’t know, decided it didn’t matter. She hated not knowing things, hated the feeling of not understanding what was being said to her.

Except she did understand. She understood, and Gwendolyn understood, and Gwendolyn didn’t break when Mildred buried her face against Gwendolyn’s shoulder and cried with her.

Gwendolyn rocked them in place a little, and even then the silent words continued. She wrote them on Mildred’s back instead of her cheek, wrote them through the barrier of Mildred’s shirt, which always made things harder.

Mildred understood them. She understood them with the clothing in the way, she understood them even though, for the first time, Gwendolyn wasn’t making just single words. She was writing whole phrases on Mildred’s spine, which shook with sobs. Mildred shook and Gwendolyn shook, and there were clothes in the way, tears, but Mildred understood the words, felt them.

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr. Come yell at me there if you want.
> 
> https://cblgblog.tumblr.com/


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